Porphyria's Lover
by BeggarsCan'tBeChoosers
Summary: Based on the 19th century poem of the same name by Robert Browning. GerIta, character death.


"_The rain set early in to-night,_

_The sullen wind was soon awake._

_It tore the elm-tops down for spite,_

_And did its worst to vex the lake:_

_I listened with heart fit to break."_

Italy stared out the window at the thick clouds and the driving rain. He pouted a little, before brightening as he saw a familiar blonde making their way towards his house. Germany opened the door and removed his coat, frowning at the puddle of water that formed around his feet. He hung his coat up and removed his boots, before attempting to slick his hair back into its normal style; but the damp locks flopped almost immediately back down again, and the tall blonde rolled his eyes and left it.

"_When glided in Porphyria; straight_

_She shut the cold out and the storm,_

_And kneeled and made the cheerless grate_

_Blaze up and all the cottage warm…"_

Germany, kneeling by the fireplace, raised an eyebrow as his slender lover recited the poem in a sing song tone, watching his every movement out of dark eyes.

"Are you feeling alright, Italien?" He asked, sitting back on his haunches as the flames began to devour the log he'd just placed on the fire.

"_Which done, she rose, and from her form_

_Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,_

_And laid her soiled gloves by, untied_

_Her hat and let the damp hair fall…"_

Italy continued as he stood, tugging off the dark leather gloves still covering Germany's large hands, putting them down on the mantelpiece before reaching down and running his fingers through the damp blonde hair. He giggled, childishly, at the upturned face, the normally pale cheeks flushed in embarrassment at the tender touch. Italy took his lover by the hands and pulled him back over to the sofa, sitting, as he continued his poem.

"_And, last, she sat down by my side_

_And called me. When no voice replied,_

_She put my arm about her waist,_

_And made her smooth white shoulder bare,_

_And all her yellow hair displaced,_

_And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,_

_And spread o'er all her yellow hair…"_

Italy smiled his trade-mark closed eye smile as he rested his head on Germany's shoulder. The taller man frowned down at him, even as he wrapped one of his strong arms around his companion's slender waist.

"What's the matter, Feliciano?" He asked quietly, taking the smaller man's long-fingered hand in his own and interlacing their fingers.

"_Murmuring how she loved me – she_

_Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,_

_To set its struggling passion free_

_From pride, and vainer ties dissever,_

_And give herself to me forever."_

"Feli, I'm concerned. Is something the matter? Should I call for a doctor?" The usually stern German looked down at his Italian lover, brow furrowed in worry for him. "Italien, tell me what's going on." He ordered, before trying a different tactic as the brunette just giggled again. "Feli, liebe, please. If there's something wrong, you have to tell me so I can fix it." Italy finally responded, leaning up to kiss his surprised lover full on the mouth, another laugh bubbling from between slightly-parted lips. Hesitantly, Germany kissed back, unsure if this was a sign of recovery or not; just as he raised a hand to cradle the smaller man's face whilst they kissed, Italy pulled back, smiling secretively.

"_But passion sometimes would prevail, _

_Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain_

_A sudden thought of one so pale_

_For love of her, and all in vain:_

_So, she was come through wind and rain."_

Italy murmured, holding their joined hands up to admire the contrast between his lover's pale skin and his own Mediterranean tan, then raised Germany's hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across the knuckles, then unfolded the fingers, kissing the tip of each one. Germany blushed again, momentarily distracted from his concerns by the tender expression in Italy's dark eyes. Despite himself, the stoic German felt an answering smile force its way onto his face.

"_Be sure I looked up at her eyes_

_Happy and proud; at last I knew_

_Porphyria worshipped me; surprise_

_Made my heart swell, and still it grew_

_While I debated what to do."_

"Feli?" Germany asked again, smile fading back into a frown. Italy reached up and stroked his brow soothingly, still smiling.

"Ti amo, Ludwig. Do you love me, amore?" He asked, head tilted innocently to one side; the first words he had spoken directly to the blonde all evening. Germany looked away, flushing slightly.

"O-of course, Feliciano." He murmured as the brunette reached up, toying with the Iron Cross necklace around the larger man's neck.

"That's good…" Italy replied dreamily. Germany's frown deepened, suddenly unsure.

"Italien…"

"_That moment she was mine, mine, fair_

_Perfectly pure and good: I found_

_A thing to do, and all her hair_

_In one long yellow strong I wound_

_Three times her little throat around…"_

At this, Italy tightened his grip on the thick chain, twisting it around his lover's throat and pulling it tight. Germany's eyes went wide and he struggled, one hand wrapping itself around Italy's slender wrist and attempting to pull him off. The brunette continued to giggle, tightening the chain further as Germany began to gasp for breath, his movements weakening, his face going pink.

"I-Italien…" He croaked.

"_And strangled her. No pain felt she;_

_I am quite sure she felt no pain."_

Italy whispered lovingly as Germany finally fell still, his body falling limply onto Italy's. The brunette stroked his lover's face, smiling brightly at the absence of a frown on that handsome face.

"_As a shut bud that holds a bee,_

_I warily oped her lids: again_

_Laughed the blue eyes without a stain._

_And I untightened next the tress_

_About her neck; her cheek once more_

_Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss…"_

Laughing, Italy kissed Germany's cheek, smoothing out his rumpled clothes, stroking his hair back from his face, and straightening the chain of the Iron Cross before tucking it back under the blonde's shirt. He allowed his lover's body to lean into his own, Germany's head settling onto Italy's narrow shoulder as the brunette continued to stroke the larger man's blonde hair, continuing to recite the poem in a soft murmur.

"_I propped her head up as before,_

_Only, this time my shoulder bore_

_Her head, which droops upon it still:_

_The smiling little rosy head,_

_So glad it has its utmost will,_

_That all it scored at once is fled,_

_And I, its love, am gained instead!_

_Porphyria's love: she guessed not how_

_Her darling one wish would be heard."_

Italy rested his head on top of Germany's, staring contentedly at the fire as he took Germany's still warm hand in his own, intertwining their fingers as before.

"_And thus we sit together now,_

_And all night long we have not stirred,_

_And yet God has not said a word!"_

The brunette giggled softly, almost hysterically, pressing a kiss to Germany's head, stroking his hand and murmuring to him in soft, adoring Italian. The storm outside slowly began to subside.

**[A/N: … What is this? What have I done?**

**I dunno. This… Well. The poem is 'Porphyria's Lover' by Robert Browning, written in about 1830. It was one of the texts I had to study for my English Lit exam, and for some reason I thought it was a really good idea to familiarise myself with the text by writing depressing character death about it C:**

**Thoughts? I have a few more of these, written for my other poems, so if you'd like to see, just let me know and I'll stick them up. Why not? C:**

**Cheers!]**


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